


If we go down, then we go down together

by Goombella123



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Serious Injuries, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, Underage Smoking, by serious i mean season-ending but not permanent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9449204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goombella123/pseuds/Goombella123
Summary: Here’s why the Trophee de France was awful: Otabek came second, and Yuri wasn’t up there with him.





	

 

The Trophee de France was awful.

 

Otabek placed second- it wasn’t a win, but it was the first of the qualifying competitions for him. Silver was a medal, at the very least. At the most, it was a promise of him performing even better next time, with a higher technical score and more time to polish his performance, his routine. Another step closer to the Grand Prix Final, another step closer to the glory he’d dreamed of for his country. This city of Paris was a checkpoint in his race for victory. A bustling, beautiful checkpoint- but Otabek was well travelled. When he thought of ‘Paris’, he thought of his silver medal. Nothing of the sights, or the people, or the culture.

 

It’s just the sort of person he is, he supposes; a homebody, despite everything. The things Otabek remembers about the places he visits are never the tourist spots, or anything on a map. It’s always the things that stay the same. The living room of a hotel, or an apartment. City lights, cold weather. A coffee taken differently every time, because Otabek doesn’t care for the stuff and can’t make up his mind on how to take it.

 

Unless he’s with another part of the world that never changes. Yuri Plisetsky- because the boy never seems to offer it.

 

Here’s why the Trophee de France was awful: Otabek came second, and Yuri wasn’t up there with him.

 

The boy shouldn’t be awake. Shouldn’t be standing, but he is. Looking out over the terrace to the entire city of Paris, flat, with cathedral spires stretching into the twilight. They reach to the stars just above them, ignoring the stars below made up of streetlamps and people in houses, that tamper out with the flick of a switch.

 

They’re ignoring, also, the star on the end of Yuri’s cigarette- which Otabek has no clue how he got it in the first place. He’s 17. He can’t even drink- and he’s a multi-time champion with a fractured ankle and a deep, dark look, blowing smoke from his mouth into the noise of the twilight atmosphere. Paying attention to none of it.

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

Otabek injured himself in the juniors. Nothing major, but the loss to his pride stung more than anything. He’s seeing that now, in Yuri. It’s been a year since he was with him, so his face is a little different. More angular. More mature, though no-one ever dared think of him as a child. But for all his changes, Yuri Plisetsky’s expressions were _exactly_ the same. He’s a prideful creature, and he stands on the terrace with a frown to rival the horizon.

 

The boy shifts his hips where he leans against the railing on his good foot. A drag of his cigarette, and he coughs. Otabek has half the mind to take it off him. He knows this spiral, and it’s never good.

 

But if he speaks, nothing good will come either.

 

That’s why they were here. Otabek to avoid the expected congratulations- it was just a silver medal. It was just a qualifier, and it didn’t mean anything to him now because he hadn’t earned it fairly. These days, Yuri was the only competition he cared about, and he’d been knocked out in a very literal way from competing. Yuri was here to avoid sympathy. From Nikiforov and Katsuki, specifically, but from everyone else, too. His grandfather, his coaches, his rink mates.

 

It was their own personal bubble of loss. A hotel room, a balcony overlooking Paris. Two bodies pressed to the railing- separate, but flowing into and through each other mutually.

 

Yuri’s phone is just another addition to the city stars. It’s blue-tinged, and scrolling through Instagram and Twitter isn’t helping him at all. Just like smoking- but that’s it, really. Yuri doesn’t want to feel better.

 

So Otabek says- “There’s no point in feeling worse.”

 

Yuri looks up, then, to barely glance at Otabek. Not that it lasts for long- he turns away, staring out into the night with a distinct hurt, with melancholy.

 

“How much worse can it get?” he says quietly, angrily. “I’m done.”

 

Done with the season? Done with skating?

 

“I’m finished, Beka.” He says.

 

He doesn’t elaborate. There’s a shift in the night, with another inhale of smoke that Yuri splutters out when he speaks.

 

“Do you know how much I’ve given up for skating?” he asks.

 

“I do.” Otabek responds on instinct.

 

“You _don’t_.” Yuri snaps back. “You have no idea.”

 

“I have _some_.” Otabek protests. Yuri laughs- dark, and humourless.

 

“That’s only the fucking half of it.” He says.

 

Otabek’s compelled to ask for an example. Yuri adjusts his weight- he’s ganglier than when Otabek last saw him. Longer hair, longer limbs. Wider hips, and a small bust contained by a sports bra no one saw outside the two of them.

 

“They wouldn’t let me transition, for one.” Yuri growls. “Something about affecting my performance. Like that wasn’t fucked already.” he mumbles into his arm. He continues.

 

“Second- have you seen me take a holiday? Like, ever?”

 

“No.” Otabek concedes. Yuri scowls at him.

 

“Correct, ‘cause I haven’t. Since I debuted in the seniors I’ve never taken a single _fucking_ break. Not once. I can’t _afford_ to.”

 

“Financially or physically?” It’s a genuine question. They only have so many years.

 

“Good one.” Yuri laughs dryly. He shuts off his phone with a click, stowing it away in his shirt. The only thing bras were good for, if you asked him.

 

“Third.”

 

The cigarette that hung from his lips now hangs from his fingers, over the balcony ledge with crossed fingers and crossed legs, one ankle supporting the other.

 

“Skating is my life, Beka. I’ve never had anything outside of it.”

 

“That’s expected. You’re a genius, Yuri.”

 

“ _I don’t want to be_.” He growls. “Besides- what happens when that’s gone?”

 

 _Like now_ , he doesn’t say, but Otabek knows that he thinks it. His hands tremble. Otabek’s stay firm on the railing grip.

 

“It’ll just be a season. You know that.” Otabek murmurs.

 

A hand balled into a fist. A slightly crushed cigarette, and yelling. “And YOU know I don’t want to hear you say it! I’m fucking DONE, Beka. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

 

And though he never specifies what means by _this_ , Otabek says “I know.” He knows, he knows. It’s a downward spiral that doesn’t have a bottom, and if it does, Otabek doesn’t want Yuri reach it. The boy doesn’t take sympathy. He doesn’t take compliments _or_ criticism, he doesn’t take gifts or smiles or warm words of reassurance from anyone.

 

But Otabek wonders briefly, before the action, if he’ll take his hand. To which the answer is yes- if it’s to take away Yuri’s cigarette.

 

The boy stares at it. Still miraculously lit, burning not-so-brightly. The way he stares is wide-eyed, glowing green stars ready to burn him should he make the wrong move. Otabek supposes Yuri expected him to crush it.

 

He doesn’t. Otabek draws it to his lips instead, and inhales. It’s nothing short of disgusting in his mouth.

 

“If we go down, then we go down together.”

 

Yuri thought he could do anything, and he fractured his foot and his heart and his hopes for the season in the process. Otabek won’t pretend to know what he needs, or what he wants from him- but he can guess. In Paris, he gives Yuri his solidarity.

 

 

There’s a selfie the next day on Instagram, that gets reposted everywhere else with the messages the two were hoping to avoid; congratulations and sympathy, respectively. But together, they’re past the point of caring about it. There’s time to recover.

 

 

 

**Yuri-Plisetsky**

**нравится:** 11,589

 

 **Yuri-Plisetsky** : fuck the trophee de france #paris #depressionparty – with Otabek Altin

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i had a car trip today and Paris by the Chainsmokers came on and i went fuck dude. fuck. i need to write this. like the image of Yuri on a balcony in france with a cigarette, frowning and taking selfies was really fuckin strong in my head and i just needed something to do with it.
> 
> also i've been meaning to do a think piece on yuri and his career for a while? especially in the context of trans yuri, since apparently testosterone is a banned substance. also i wanted prose practice. if this turned out a lil edgy, that's why.
> 
> thanks for reading my guys


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